Buried Alive
by Sherlock221
Summary: John experiences one of the worst nights of his life when a hurt Sherlock calls and tells him he has been buried alive. It becomes a race against time to save him. Hurt/Sherlock Protective/WorriedJohn. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

A phone ringing woke John from his deep slumber and he groaned. He reached over to his bedside table and groped for the phone. Blinking his eyes to focus them, he reads the name of the caller. Sherlock.

John sighed and opened the phone, placing it to his ear. "Do you know what time-"

"John." The detective's voice sounded off.

John sat up in his bed and ran a hand over his face. "Ugh..Look, I'm sorry about earlier tonight. I was being a jerk and-"

"Please help, John-" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed.

John could hear the pain in Sherlock's voice and sat up straighter, throwing his legs off the side of the bed. This was a tone of voice John was not used to hearing from the consulting detective. "What's wrong, Sherlock?" John asked, in a stern voice.

John heard the man's shallow breath, but he did not respond. "Sherlock. Answer me!"

"I can't breathe. John, I-I can't breathe," Sherlock groaned. "I-m sorry, John." Sherlock's words wer slurred.

John was up and pulling on his pants as Sherlock spoke. "Calm down, Sherlock. What happened?"

John knew that Sherlock was hurt. Between his slurred words and harsh breathing, he knew it was bad. _Keep him talking. Don't let him stop talking._

"It's dark in here. I'm not fond of small spaces-"

"In where?" John interrupted. "Sherlock, where are you?"

"John-"

"Sherlock, dammit, tell me where you are!"

"They-..They buried me, John."

A/N Please let me know what you thought!


	2. Chapter 2

"Buried you?!" John exclaimed. Every emotion rushed through John in that moment. Even doubt. Maybe this was one of Sherlock's tricks. But he had never heard the great Sherlock Holmes sound so scared.

"J-John."

Sherlock's voice is shaking which makes Johns heart sink even more. "Where are you?"

For a second there is only the sound of Sherlock's harsh breathing.

John is already at the door pulling on his shoes and running down the stairs. He stops and the bottom of the stairs. "Sherlock, where are you?" He repeats.

"I-I don't know, John. That's the point," Sherlock states, with a hint of frustration in his voice.

John runs a hand over his face. Questions are running through his mind, trying to find the most important to ask. "Are you hurt?"

John hears Sherlock draw a deep breath. "I don't have long."

John steadies himself against the banister on the stairs. "How long?"

"Well, the smaller you are the longer you'll survive. I'm thinking this box measures 84 inches; width 28 inches, and height 23 inches. So it's total volume is 54.096 cubic inches, or 880 liters. We'll use that as the internal volume too, to give me a few extra minutes of life. And the average volume of a human body is 66 liters. That leaves 820 liters of air, one-fifth of which is oxygen, 164 liters. If an average person consumes .5 liters of oxygen per minute, it would take almost 5 and a half hours before all the oxygen in this box is consumed."

"But you're not the average person," John countered.

"Exactly. Which means I should have more time, but my height counters my weight. I'm taking up too much room. In addition, I was unconscious, which gives me even less time."

"Sherlock-" John interrupted, not wanting to hear any more.

"And I am, according to you, malnourished, but-"

"Sherlock! Stop talking. You're using too much of your air."

John can practically hear Sherlock nod as he tries to restrain himself.

"How long do you have?" John asks, trying to stay calm.

"Two and a half hours."

A/N Please review and let me know if you want me to continue this story!


	3. Chapter 3

_A/_N Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews! They inspire me and make my day every time! **This takes place before Sherlock called John in the first chapter!**

_Sherlock's POV_

_30 minutes earlier_

When Sherlock regained consciousness he immediately knew something was wrong. First, he didn't know when he had fallen asleep. Then he felt a sharp pang in his head. So, didn't fall asleep then; knocked out. Secondly, he felt restricted. His arms were down by his sides and pushing them outwards, his hands connected with a wall.

_Just stay calm. _

_Take slow, deep breaths._

_Just stay calm._

_In, out, in, out, in, out._

He opened his eyes, or at least he thought he opened his eyes. There was nothing, only darkness. A quick feel of his eyes assured him that they were indeed open. His hand bumped into something only a few inches from his face. Long fingers roamed over the surface. The walls beside him were wood, but the surface above him was different. More like steel. He was in some sort of box. He had been buried alive.

_Just stay calm. _

_Take slow, deep breaths._

_Just stay calm._

_In, out, in, out, in, out._

There were flashes of being in the flat with John, then a fight, and finally giving in and going to the store to get milk. After that, everything went black.

He ran his hands along the metal in front of him and felt that it was one solid piece for as far down as he could reach. Walls were on all four sides of him, and the hard floor was not helping his back any. There was just enough room for him to fit in the space with a couple of inches to spare in either direction. The stone slab was too heavy to push up; he was stuck. The top slab was completely flush with the wood walls, meaning that no outside air was coming in. That someone better hurry.

_Just stay calm. _

_Take slow, deep breaths._

_Just stay calm._

_In, out, in, out, in, out._

Based on the size of the container, and if he could keep his breathing under control, he figured that he had a maximum of 5 hours of air. After that there would be too much carbon dioxide and he would lose consciousness before asphyxiating to death. He had complete faith that someone would find him before that happened. Dying was not something he wanted to go through.

A search of his pants pockets revealed that they were empty. Shit. Panic was not going to help him. John was probably already aware of his absence and would be starting a search for him. But John had mumbled he was going to sleep when Sherlock left the flat. There was nothing in his coffin other than himself. If he panicked he would start breathing faster, if he started breathing faster he would use up the oxygen more quickly, if he used up the oxygen more quickly then he would die more quickly.

_Just stay calm. _

_Take slow, deep breaths._

_Just stay calm._

_In, out, in, out, in, out._

If he closed his eyes maybe he could just sleep until he was found. He would consume less of the precious oxygen while asleep.

Anxiousness tore threw him. His leg kicked out and something flew against the wood wall. Reaching down as much as he could, his hand grasped and retrieved his phone. Sherlock smiled at this and began to drag his arm up. But as he passed his torso, a wet substance coated the bottom of his hand. He snatched the phone up to his face. Pressing a button the phone lit up. He shined the light down towards his side. And realization hit him.

Blood was leaking from a wound on the side of his ribs. Flashes of memory rushed through him and the sharp pain of what he knew was a stab wound tore through his stomach. _How did I not notice this? _He knew it was shock. His whole body felt numb. He began to breathe harshly.

Putting the phone down on his chest, he unraveled a scarf from his neck and cried out as he pushed it against the wound. Not life threatening. _Yet_, he decided.

Keeping one hand over the scarf, Sherlock uses his other to dial John's number. After a few rings his only friend picks up.

He can hear John sigh. "Do you know what time-"

"John."

A/N So now we know there is an injury Sherlock is keeping from John! Please let me know what you thought!


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